The Rembrandt Secret (24 page)

Outside the Zeigler Gallery, she peered in at the window, surprised to see someone looking back at her.

Unfazed, Lillian rapped on the window, and Marshall opened the door.

‘My God,’ she exclaimed as she walked in. ‘What happened here? And where’s your father?’

She could sense the tension as she rummaged in her bag for a cigarette and lit up. ‘Marshall, where’s your father?’

‘He was murdered—’

‘He was
what
!’ Lillian snapped, as though it was a personal insult to her. ‘I’ve been away. What happened?’

Undaunted by her reputation or her manner, Marshall told her the details – without, of course, mentioning anything about the letters. Alert, and with something close to excitement in her eyes, Lillian listened, puffing on her cigarette, her eyes narrowed.

‘So who did it?’

‘No one knows. The police haven’t caught anyone.’

‘The police couldn’t catch a cold,’ she responded. ‘I’m so sorry. Your father was a friend of mine.’

‘I know.’

‘One of the few men I had time for around here,’ Lillian went on, knowing that Marshall was holding back and wondering what he was hiding. Her instincts leapt into action, her brain was galvanised. ‘Mind you, he had some mad theories.’

Marshall said nothing.

‘There was some wild tale about Rembrandt.’ She
flicked her ash into a waste bin and paced the gallery. Her expensive shoes were too tight, her ankles puffy from the plane journey. ‘We used to talk about it, make up stupid stories about painters. Once, when we were drunk, we spent half the night trying to outdo each other. I believed that Leonardo’s boyfriend, Salai, was his bastard, and your father said he thought that Rembrandt had a son.’

‘He did,’ Marshall replied, unmoved. ‘Titus.’

‘Oh, your artistic education
is
improving,’ Lillian replied, now certain there was something to be uncovered. ‘There was a time when you thought Duccio was a brand of condom.’

He smiled, but refused to be drawn. Lillian sat down and crossed her short legs. Although Marshall had been warned from childhood about Lillian Kauffman, he admired her intelligence and, despite her acid tongue, knew her to be honest.

‘Are you staying here?’

‘Maybe,’ Marshall replied. ‘I’ve not made my mind up about what I’m doing.’

‘What about Teddy Jack?’

The question caught him off guard. ‘What about him?’

‘Was he questioned?’

‘You think Teddy Jack had something to do with my father’s murder?’

‘I think Teddy Jack was devoted to your father,’ she replied, smoothly. ‘He did many jobs for Owen. You see, living above the shop, as I have done for over twenty years,
I can see people’s comings and goings. Mr Jack used to visit your father at very odd times.’

‘It must be useful having insomnia.’

She didn’t even blink. ‘Then again, Tobar Manners was also a frequent visitor. Is
he
still alive?’

‘Very.’

‘Pity,’ Lillian replied. ‘I was hoping your father’s murderer might turn out to be a serial killer.’ She looked around the gallery, then back at Marshall. ‘What aren’t you telling me? Oh, I know people say what a cow I am, and it’s true. But I was fond of your father and know a lot about what goes on around here. You don’t, and I could help.’

‘The police—’

‘Are arses,’ Lillian cut in. ‘The art world is as enclosed as a monastery. You have to work here, or be born into it, to understand it. No outsider can penetrate this world. You can’t afford to be ignorant here.’ She paused, then said, ‘Your father was looking for those letters, the Rembrandt letters’ – her eyes narrowed fleetingly – ‘Oh, I see a response! Very good, Marshall, no one else would have caught it. So you know about the letters, do you?’

‘No.’

She ignored him. ‘I knew your father had them—’

‘Really? Where?’

‘I don’t know that,’ she answered blithely. ‘I just know he had them. Now – speaking metaphorically of course – if there
were
Rembrandt letters, and if they proved that Rembrandt had a son, why would that matter?’ she asked
herself, putting out her cigarette and pacing again. ‘It wouldn’t matter. Unless there was something about the son which was important … Am I warm?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Before Owen found the letters he would talk about Rembrandts being faked en masse. So is there a connection between the fakes and the son?’

Marshall shrugged.

‘Of course there are forgeries discovered everyday. Fake paintings, fake sculptures, fake letters – but then again, no one would kill for
fake
letters, would they?’ Lillian asked, not waiting for a reply. ‘But if the letters contained something dangerous, or something which could affect the art market then, yes, people
would
kill for them.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘You have to tell me, Marshall.’

‘No, Lillian, I don’t have to tell you anything. There’s nothing to tell,’ he replied, his face impassive.

‘Don’t be fucking stupid!’ she retorted. ‘You need help. And I can help you. Do you realise how many people would be after those letters? Either to destroy them, or use them? Owen used to talk to me about it – oh, this is a long time ago, when he’d bang on about his bloody theory every time we had a few drinks. He’d say that if Rembrandt had had a son who was proved to have created many of his father’s works, the value of Rembrandts would topple. I can see Owen now, drinking a pink gin, leaning back in that chair’ – she pointed to one beside the empty desk – ‘He never seemed to tire of talking about it. Then suddenly, around a year ago, your father
stopped
talking about
Rembrandt. He was struggling with money at the gallery, sales were down. He kept it quiet, but he let a few hints slip.’

Marshall could see her clever mind working, drawing on everything she remembered.

‘I noticed his silence on a subject with which he had previously seemed obsessed. The fact lodged in my brain.’ She tapped her left temple. ‘Your father could be obvious at times. His sudden reticence spoke volumes.’

‘Maybe he just went off the idea.’

‘Oh, yes, people do that,’ Lillian said sarcastically. ‘They just drop an obsession which they’ve been chasing for decades. And around that time that your father “went off” the idea, I remember noticing that Samuel Hemmings was visiting a lot.’

‘He was my father’s mentor.’

‘Did he authenticate the letters?’

‘Why don’t you ask him?’

‘Don’t get snotty with me, Marshall,’ she said coldly, ‘I’m trying to help.’

‘Really? How could you help me?’

‘Have you got the letters?’

He thought of them sitting in the Amsterdam bank.

‘No.’

‘All right,’ she said, taking in a breath. ‘Let’s play a bit longer, I love a good game. I’ve had a marvellous holiday, my brain’s just burning to work. So, shall we take it from the beginning? Are the Rembrandt letters authentic?’

Marshall shrugged, watching Lillian.

‘Samuel Hemmings could have authenticated them, I suppose. But then again, maybe he’s not enough of an expert in Rembrandt.
So who is?
’ She paused, her back suddenly rigid. ‘
Stefan van der Helde was murdered last year in Amsterdam
. Van der Helde would have been the perfect person to authenticate the letters.’

Marshall realised that Lillian Kauffman wasn’t going to let go. She had fixed her bite on her prey and wasn’t going to give it up. Her mind was filtering everything she knew, drawing on information she had collected, old information which had seemed trivial but was now beginning to gel together into a sensational whole. Marshall watched her, her eyes brilliant, her logic at work, and was impressed.

‘I’d say Van der Helde was murdered because of the letters, so they must be authentic. My God,’ she said urgently, ‘what do they say? Tell me, Marshall, what do they say?’

Standing up, he walked to the door. ‘Thank you for coming over, Lillian, but I’ve some work to do—’

‘You have those bloody letters, don’t you?’ She looked up at him fiercely. ‘Christ, Marshall, if you do, watch your back. And remember, I’d be a bloody good ally.’

He was tempted, but decided against talking to her further. He remembered the mistake he had made in confiding in Georgia. Anyone involved in the Rembrandt letters was under threat.

‘Honestly, I don’t know about any of this. I don’t know what my father was talking about. We never spoke about his business,’ Marshall replied, his voice steady. ‘I really do have to go now, Lillian—’

‘You need me. Don’t throw my offer in my face!’

‘I don’t mean to offend you, Lillian.’

‘Mrs Kauffman to you, boy,’ she replied, her tone autocratic. ‘You haven’t earned the right to familiarity yet.’

Rinsing her hair in the shower, Georgia paused, thinking she heard the phone ringing. Grabbing a towel, she moved out into the bedroom and then realised that the answer phone was picking up the message. Or, rather, the lack of message. Annoyed, she moved back into the bathroom and turned the shower on again, putting her hand under the water to check the temperature. The water was slow to heat up, she thought, wondering if she should turn the boiler on again, but then stepped gingerly under the tepid stream. Her teeth chattering, she danced from foot to foot, the blind drawn over the bathroom window shifting slightly behind her.

Feeling the water temperature rise, Georgia relaxed, the heat soothing her shoulders and back. She would phone Marshall later, give him an earful for not returning her calls … Her thoughts drifted as she wallowed under the warm water. Only six more months, she thought excitedly, six more months and she would be a mother. Smiling, she bit her lip. When she was married to Marshall they
hadn’t wanted children; they were too young and too full of plans to settle down. But Harry was another type of man. Reliable, loving, a father in his pram. Made to be the head of a family.

Georgia shook her wet hair, then placed her hands on her stomach and pushed it out, arching her back. She wondered fleetingly what she would look like when her stomach swelled further, and made a mental note to get some Bio Oil to rub in to prevent stretch marks. Gazing at her fuzzy reflection in the tiles, she could see her arched back and rounded belly, see herself languidly soaping her skin … Behind her the blind shifted slightly, while Georgia sang to herself under the warm water and turned the HOT tap higher. But the water went suddenly cold and, cursing, she jumped out of the shower. Wrapping the bath towel around her, she made her way into the kitchen and stood in front of the boiler, staring at the timer knob and twisting up the temperature.

Suddenly, from above her head, came the crashing sound of glass. She jumped and looked up, then realised instantly that it came from the bathroom and was about to run back upstairs to see what was happening when she saw the shadow of a figure on the landing. Backing away, she scrambled for the front door handle – and then she ran, half naked, into the Clapham street.

Parking outside Samuel Hemmings’ Sussex home, Marshall was just turning off the engine when he noticed someone watching him from the steps on the side of the garage.
A thin, morose man was smoking a roll-up, his jacket over his shoulders, his eyes curious under beetling brows. Carefully pressed trousers and shined shoes gave him a kempt look, but his face was heavily lined and sour.

Nodding, Marshall called over to him. ‘Is Mr Hemmings in?’

‘Who wants to know?’

‘I’m Marshall Zeigler. Who are you?’

‘Greg Horner,’ he replied, flicking some ash off his smoke. ‘I’m staying here for a while. Keeping an eye on the place – and who comes here.’ He walked down the steps, over to where Marshall was standing, his glance resting admiringly on the car. ‘Nice.’

‘Didn’t you used to have the garage in the village?’

‘Yeah, sold it,’ Greg replied, lying and putting a more positive spin on the truth. ‘I remember your father. He used to spend a lot of time up here. Sorry about what happened to him.’ He dropped the fag end onto the gravel and ground it out with the heel of his polished shoe. ‘He was a gentleman. I bet the old man’s taken it hard?’

‘Yes, he has.’

Greg dropped his voice, although no one could possibly have heard him from the house.

‘Mr Hemmings never used to mind being here on his own. But now …’ he let the inference trail. ‘You don’t think about it, do you?’

Marshall blinked. ‘About what?’

‘Being able-bodied. No, you don’t think about it, but it must be hard, not being able to get around and do for yourself.
I don’t suppose,’ Greg went on, his tone authoritative, ‘that Mr Hemmings will want to go back to being on his own. Not after having me around. Looking out for him.’

‘I don’t suppose he will,’ Marshall replied, moving into the house.

Samuel was bent over a book at the round table under the window when Marshall walked in. Looking up, he raised his eyebrows.

‘Have you met the guard dog?’

Marshall nodded. ‘Got the teeth marks to prove it.’

Smiling, Samuel leaned back in his wheelchair. ‘I thought you’d be impressed. You wanted me get someone around the place.’

‘Well, he certainly won’t be inviting company,’ Marshall replied, sitting down at the table and flicking over the pages of a book. Tired, he yawned and then rubbed his eyes, Samuel watching him carefully. In the short time since his father’s death, Marshall’s face had gained a wary look, but despite his obvious exhaustion, his eyes were alert, his deep voice stable.

‘Did you look at the paintings I told you about?’

Samuel nodded. ‘Very carefully.’

‘It’s a pattern, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, it looks that way.’

‘I need some help.’

‘Yes, you said that on the phone. What kind of help?’

‘I need you to teach me.’

Surprised, Samuel stared at his visitor. ‘
Teach
you? Teach you what?’

‘About Rembrandt.’

Laughing, Samuel leaned back, his jumper spotted with gravy, his eyebrows raised.

‘What the hell for?’

‘Because I don’t understand what’s going on,’ Marshall confessed. ‘I’ve read the letters, but I don’t really know why they’re so important. I don’t know how the business works. Or how Rembrandt lived. I’m reading his mistress’s letters and I’ve only half the picture.’